


You Know What I Mean

by highwayblockparty (Oxygen)



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Cooking, Domestic Fluff, M/M, Porn with a Plot Yelled From Across The House, Shower Sex, Showers, Sort of anyway, Tactile Strolling Through A Morning In The Lives Of These Two Crackheads, Trans Junkrat | Jamison Fawkes, Trans Male Character, Trans Roadhog | Mako Rutledge, trying to set some world record like who will mention loofahs and dextromethorphan in the same story
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-08
Updated: 2019-01-08
Packaged: 2019-10-06 16:09:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,722
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17348342
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Oxygen/pseuds/highwayblockparty
Summary: "This" is off thoughts, passing things, unformalized words, and half grown trellises of little understandings and ‘we work well together’s.They don’t demand attention or water until life is so normal and average and boring and mundane and nothing compared to /this/ that Mako ends up tripping over the watering cans or the rakes and face first into an untrimmed garden.





	You Know What I Mean

Mako had spent years in contemplation. That’s the simplest way to describe it, and if he were encouraged to spell it out further, maybe it would involve sleepless nights and quiet, watching eyes across the horizon. He thinks about the city-- Junkertown, with its good food, the vendors, then Bruce, the dead end jobs, small town lives with a big city glimmer, distantly watching lovers, drunkards at the bars, spiralling onwards and inward.

These things swirled in his head until they settled into dust and dry suds and simple words, sometimes no words at all. He’s a single bastard. He gets his own. Something like scrapping, something like being a bouncer, something like being all alone.

He watches TV, has a beer, jacks off, and goes to bed after a long day made longer by the dawdling sun.

It’s fine in the sense that he doesn’t find himself corraling himself into what ifs and could have beens. Instead, he wakes up, heavy in the weight of the heat and the dust and his own blood, sloughing it all off to make a coffee in the barn with a roof like a cathedral.

For that he’s grateful.

So when Junkrat comes into his life, he doesn’t find it moving the heavens or the earth. Not for a long time, anyway.

“Morning,” Junkrat sits at the table by the kitchen area, all sectioned off amorphously in the single roomed barn. He plays with some utensils, swinging and weaving them around his fingers like a miniature acrobat.

“Mm,” Mako shoots back, giving himself one hard blink before shutting off the fan and readjusting his briefs underneath the sheets. “What’re you up to?”

“Nothing! Declaring this my day off. I _refuse_ to even think about thinking-- did wash the dishes, though.”

“Thanks.”

“Of course.”

Mako rolls over to check the tablet he keeps underneath his bed-- power’s low, should recharge that. No notifications, less than satisfactory internet connection, the usual. First one’s a lie, actually -- Bruce sent him an update on the new Hogdrogen delivery system, since the old ones were starting to twist and tear the material around the mask ports. Nice.

That’s how he occupies himself for a bit. The heat and light and dust filter down into the barn, keeping Junkrat fascinated as he stares out into space. Hums some tune. Mako lets himself enjoy the feeling of his joints decompressed.

It occurs to him that Junkrat must have hopped on over from his neighboring house much earlier than _now_ if the dishes were washed, but nothing further than that. No worries, no speculation, no squandering his time on this or that-- Rather, he’s caught up on the fact that he _didn’t_ spiral inwards into vestigial awkwardness about sleeping in the near nude or looking less than attractive while he dreamt.

And that lets a small and unexpected smile work its way onto his face.

They were always business, they worked well together, they got shit done and knew how to kick it with a bowl of noodles and a flatscreen TV after a big heist. _This_ , although adjacent, was a little different, and he would be lying if he said it didn’t hit him in the gut with a morphine heat kind of good.

So he sloughs off his blankets, walking over to grab his shorts from the back of a chair at the table with no reservation, just like Junkrat would pay no mind.

Junkrat’s worked through half a carafe already, so maybe the day off bit was a lie, or half of one, or maybe he never slept at all. Who knows. He looks amiable enough though, eyes keen, paying him some pointed kind of attention.

“Want something?” Mako asks, skimming the fridge. Eggs, nice. Vegetables, potatoes, ah, gotta replace the box of baking soda. Something small spilled in the back too, he’ll clean that.

“I mean, what do we have-- eggs?” Mako responds in the affirmative. “Yeah, just cook up whatever you want. The eggs were fantastic last time, send my compliments to the chef-- wait, let me help you.”

Junkrat makes his way to his side, eager and sniffing around the fridge for something good. Tomatoes, interesting. Potatoes?

“I can saute these,” Junkrat explains. “Grab the butter, I’ll get the pans.”

“Hah,” Mako laughs. “Said you weren’t thinking today.”

“Ach!” Junkrat lets out some indeterminate noise and cackles, “Come on, you know what I mean. It’s different.”

Mm.

So, Junkrat rifles around for the pans, contorting his way around the tight cabinet. The skin and flesh of his back desperately hang onto his bones.

Morphine in his blood.

Mako snorts to himself.

“Ok, here,” Junkrat gets the propane tanks open and flicks a prosthetic finger open to reveal a lighter. He’s very meticulous about all of this, feeling the valve out like a thief with his ears to a lock, not wasting a second to set the stove alight. Mako has to bite his tongue back every time he feels like reminding the man that _they really can just get more tanks, no worries._

It’s no worries, but old habits die hard, and maybe it brings him some peace of mind

They heat up butter for two pans, one bigger for the eggs, and one smaller for the potatoes. With his steadier hands, Mako starts chopping up vegetables and scooting them into a bowl to whip with the eggs. Despite his best efforts, mistakes happen, and his hands become coated in scallions and starch and stray tomato innards.

That’s the moment his mind chooses to point out the loose strands of hairs falling down his face, awkwardly obscuring the board, cascading down his shoulders and back like pesky vines or snakes.

He lets out a noise of annoyance, shaking his hands over the sink. Before he can turn on the tap to wash his hands, Junkrat is wrapping a hairband off of his wrist and onto his hand.

“I’ve got you, hold on,” he says, and, well, Mako won’t say no. Seeing as Junkrat has to stand on the tip of his foot to get a good angle, Mako leans down.

Junkrat cards his hands through Mako’s hair, and he’s pleasantly surprised that the prosthesis doesn’t snag on his hair as much as he thought it would.

The haphazard bun is a touch lower than he tends to wear it, but he appreciates the gesture. He’ll redo it if it comes loose.

“Sure this won’t give me lice?” Mako jokes. Before he can regret the impulsive comment, Junkrat _psshaws_ at him.

“Hah! That hairband is yours, big guy. I should be the one asking the questions here.”

“If you used it, then I’m at risk.”

“At risk of what, like, contracting superlice? You think our respective parasites would canoodle and-- _Mmpghh--_ OK! _OK!_ Joke cancelled! Done! Over! Moving along!” Junkrat mouths against Mako’s hands, with zero apologies and a completely shiteating grin.

“Disgusting,” Mako says, huffing out a laugh. He knocks Jamison upside the gourd. “Can’t eat these eggs now.”

“You started it, so face the consequences. And now you’ve got this fucking tomato… _mucus_ all over me,” Junkrat wipes his mouth. “Unhinged bastard. The fellows at the Geneva convention must have said a word or two about this.”

Things settle down after that, Junkrat busies himself pouring the eggs and vegetables into the pan and occasionally giggling, using a pair of metal chopsticks to stir everything around. Mako works at tidying the kitchenette.

After a pause full of passing actions, Junkrat brings up an afterthought.

“If this is how you are when I do you a favor, I oughta start being a little more… hmm.”

...

 _“...Mean_.”

Ah?

Mako hears an edge of trepidation in his voice. Now, Junkrat’s not shy, that’s for sure, but he’s one to project his voice for everything ever, and _this_ is the kind of delicate, subtle territory he would lack finesse navigating.

Aha, _this_.

It’s not new. Moments skirt in his head, gingerly italicized.

Heists made shit complicated, and they didn’t even have to speak to reach a mutual agreement that they would respect each other’s space, both mental and physical.

You don’t sneak looks, brush hands, or pull your pants down and fuck your boss on an international crime spree because finding the time and the energy to do that wouldn’t have been either of their top priorities. Mako’s untangling routes to oblivious motels, or the network of muscles and knots in his own tense neck and back, not the opposite.

Junkrat builds bombs in the corner of the motel. Junkrat always tinkers, always experiments, always builds, his foremost love, maybe, his Novocaine and dextromethorphan-- and that wouldn’t change.

 _This_ is off thoughts, passing things, unformalized words, and half grown trellises of little understandings and ‘ _we work well together’_ s. They don’t demand attention or water until life is so normal and average and boring and mundane and _nothing_ compared to **_this_ **that he ends up tripping over the watering cans or the rakes and face first into an untrimmed garden.

And maybe he’s thinking way too fucking much into this, and missed a cue to snort at one of Junkrat’s jokes that serve nothing more than to fill up the silence, so he gives him a belated one if nothing else.

Morphine warbles in his chest.

Junkrat clears his throat. “Gonna-- hold on. You got the plates?”

“Mm.”

Junkrat’s mouthing something to himself, eyes dancing and darting on a more frequent basis to some direction. With zero follow up on whatever the fuck that was, the man serves himself some food and heads to the table, scooting a radio over to make some space for the plates.

It looks _suspiciously_ worked on, casing partially removed and shiny new internals peeking through.

He turns it on to a station, then changes his mind, hunting for something he seemed to have lost just a few hours ago, and no _fucking way_ he hasn’t been up working on this shit all night and morning to keep his head and hands busy.

Mako knows this song and dance. If Junkrat wants to ask for some kind of permission through subtle actions, if Junkrat’s already danced with him through bank architecture, if Junkrat’s already sang hellfire at the coppers on high speed chases, then Mako’s gonna go _right_ along with him.

Junkrat eats slowly, like it’s really taking him a lot of energy to concentrate on being a human. He gets like that when he slips an oversized tab under his tongue, impulsive, shifting and swirling it, avoiding having to swallow until it’s where he wants it to be and for as long as he wants it there, drool spilling from the sides of his mouth, and--

Mako has to give himself a moment to bark out an honest, heady laugh.

It really _has_ been too long!

Junkrat, across from him, licks his teeth from behind his lips, and gives him a good, sharp grin. He exhales a breath he seemed to have been holding in for God knows how long.

“Well, that saved me a fuckton of shoeshining.”

Mako knows what he means.

They finish up here, and Junkrat helps him clean the plates off in a quiet, good tension.

“I’m gonna scrub down,” Junkrat tells him as he sets them to dry. “You, uh...”

Junkrat seems lost for words. Maybe, possibly, he rifles through past showers--After heists, Mako would read the news on his tablet, facing away but at an arm’s length as Junkrat washed sweat and char and mute stress down the drain-- for a good segway to whatever he wants.

Mako doesn’t sweat him out, just lets his tongue catch up with his thoughts.

“Mind, uh, helping me, uh… hmm…”

“...hmm...”

...

Nevermind. Mako absolutely grills him.

“Agh, fuck! Toss me a bone, will you, Hog?” Junkrat bursts out. “I've got a loofah with your name on it, perhaps? Shower for two? An audience with King Jamison Fawkes? Hey, what’s th--”

“Let’s go,” Mako says, putting a hand against the small of Junkrat’s back and guiding him out back to where their beach-style shower is. He’d maybe tell him how out of practice he is, and how incredibly eager he is to melt off the the layers of humorous crutches and daisychain comments to reach a softer inside.

Just _maybe--_ the feel of his hands against Jamison puts him on a tight, silent edge.

The shade of the barn keeps the red earth from scalding their feet, as does the canopied shower area. It’s well hidden from the collection of houses swarming around Junkertown’s gate, but really, no one’s awake in the middle of the day anyway. Besides oddballs like Bruce, some scavengers, and the two of them, the people of the city tend to go about their lives at night when the air is fresher.

The rainwater tank sends out aqueducts, and some snake underneath the earth to reach the shower area. It’s a very neat design that was here before the two of them moved in, though Junkrat did modify the showerhead to fit their heights, and the walls to be more spacious. It fits a good soap rack and a shower stool or two, with plenty of legroom.

Mako pauses outside just as Junkrat clambers in, the same awkwardness he leveled against him turning around to bite him in the ass. But Mako’s had just a little more time, a little more practice to learn how to take it easy and stand there with a smug, victorious smirk.

“You gonna get in here or what, big guy?” Junkrat says hurriedly. “I’m dead serious about the loofah. S’brand new, all organic, locally sourced spongy goodness. Perfect for exfoliating and the McHeroes know I’ve been skipping out on that.”

Mako snorts. “Yeah, pass it to me.”

Stepping into the showerspace is… not monumental, but definitely distinct. The morphine threads its way through his blood, warm and even and making him shiver for just a second, despite the heat.

Well, there’s a loofah in his hand, so that’s a good distraction. Junkrat’s right-- it’s a pristine cream color, firm and dry, never been soaked. Nice, nice.

Junkrat’s shimmying down to his boxer briefs, tossing the pants over the side of the shower without a worry. Mako follows suit, though he’s more careful to hang them off the sides.

The blonde man hesitates before taking off what remains of his… _outfit_ , narrowing his eyes just a tad. He decides to keep the boxer briefs, but unhooks his prosthetics and peels back the anti-chafe lining.

“Chairs, one of God’s greatest inventions that I’ll hopefully get to experience in _one_ second...” Junkrat jokes as he stands precariously and one-leggedly, adjusting the water flow. It sputters, sputters, sputters, then, in a hard cut, comes rocketing out. It startles the both of them, and Junkrat falls into him, letting out a squawk.

Well, now they’re partially doused and very shocked, but Mako recovers and gets the loofah in right quick, arms raised over Junkrat’s shoulder. Junkrat does a quick maneuver around, getting 360 degrees of himself soaked to the bone and scrabbling his hand around in his hair. They do a sort of dance, switching places; Roadhog huffs as the last of the sunheated water from the pipes hits his shoulderblades and neck, quickly turning cold.

With his arms awkwardly around Junkrat, Junkrat’s arms pressed by his waist, and their boxer briefs clinging to their skin, it really, fully hits him that this is _happening_.

After the water’s shut off, Junkrat lowers down to scoot a stool over, turning his back to Mako. He grabs the other one, reaching the man’s level.

He takes a moment to rest a hand across Junkrat’s back. In a strangely tender gesture, Junkrat does nothing but turn his head back to give him a quiet smile.

The water’s evaporating already, so Roadhog gets to work with some bodywash and the loofah. It’s a pretty neutral scent, just mildly astringent, but the bubbles fascinate him as they multiply and recede against Junkrat’s skin, crawling onto his hands and cascading down the both of them. Junkrat gathers a handful of them and starts lathering his hair.

“Feels like I’m at the barber’s,” Junkrat says absently, and, well... Mako furrows his brows. Okay?

As he works from Junkrat’s shoulders down the curves and recessions that make his back, he finds his free hand feeling empty. With less hesitation than before, he nestles it in the crook of Junkrat’s stomach and thigh, lightly drumming his fingers against the tight pelvic muscles there.

The man shivers.

Mako leans in. “Is this fine?” He says, voice lower.

“Well, don’t back out on me now,” Junkrat answers immediately, breathier than he probably expected.

The morphine pools in his gut.

Mako reaches the man’s legs and decides to hand the loofah over to him, since the angle is too awkward for him to reach. Junkrat scrubs below his knee, winding up the muscles and back to his thighs without much interest, just working carefully around the stump. Mako slips a few fingers underneath the waistband in the meantime.

“Just… let me know,” Mako adds, not really needing to elaborate. He puts a hand on Junkrat’s chest, overlapping his top surgery scars and diving into the crook between his jaw and neck with his lips. He inches the hand further, ruffling through his wispy pubic hair, and Junkrat arches back, letting out a strangled sound.

He laughs deep against Junkrat’s neck and that makes him titter, trailing off into something like a pant.

“This getting you off, huh?” He says, surprised at and _extremely_ grateful for the fluidity with which it comes.

“Come **on** ,” Frustrated, Junkrat growls at what feels like an octave deeper. “I hate--”

Mako plants a finger firmly against the flesh above his cock. Junkrat drops the loofah.

“ _\--waiting!_ ”

That’s what he likes to hear.

Junkrat rocks against his hand and Mako puts in some work. He doesn’t bother with what he would have done with any of his old partners, remembering a humorous conversation where Junkrat wistfully recalled the time his nipples had any sensation at all. Emphasis on the wistful.

Instead, he dances fingers down his ribs and to his navel, knowing he’s ticklish there. Junkrat’s cock jumps, his voice catches in his throat, and the muscles underneath his skin ripple and flex.

Junkrat’s breathing picks up, making needier, smaller, more incoherent noises. He begins saying something, but it takes a few tries for him to untangle it from his own tongue.

“H-Hog, H--” He begins, and Mako slows down, in case Junkrat’s getting overwhelmed.

“It’s fine, it’s fine, it’s fine, keep on going, just--,” Junkrat gets out, breathing through his nose hard. “You can just--”

Giving up on words, he guides Mako’s hand with his own, shakily moving downwards against his slick heat. Mako takes the hint, giving longer strokes and dipping in on the offbeats. Junkrat leans his head back on Mako’s shoulder, curling back and letting his hair cascade down his partner’s back, lost in ecstacy and the rhythm.

Ahahahaha.

Ah.

_Ah._

Junkrat begins grinding more erratically, back arching and the muscles around Mako’s fingers spasming. Mako lets him ride out his climax on them, pinning him down with his free hand, biting into the flesh of his throat and licking his jaw. He doesn’t let up claiming him even as his spasms come to a stop, because his heady, pretty, needy little mews turn into hectic laughter and obscene, unrepentant moans and he tenses up around him again.

If there’s anything he knows about Junkrat…

“Round two?” Mako asks.

“Of _course_ ,” Junkrat breathes.

Well, the neighbors have heard worse.

Mako pulls his hair, getting his attention. “Better not fucking fall asleep on me after this,” he growls. “Need something from you too.”

Junkrat flashes his teeth in a wild hunter’s grin. “Just getting started. Hope _you_ don’t fall asleep on me, old man, ‘cause I’ve got something in store for you.” Junkrat contorts his hand back to grip the inside of Mako’s thigh, thumb frigid against the flesh, and it makes his heart jump.

Oh. Ahahaha.

God.

He’s waited for this day for a very, very, very long time.

**“Deal.”**

Before Junkrat gets to whatever it is he wants, he gives Mako’s arms a few pats, signaling that he wants to get up. Untangling himself, Mako’s confused until he sees him peeling off his half-dry briefs. He eases the water valve on again, half shaking like a dog underneath the spray.

He leans back as far as the jet will let him, half propping himself against the wall and running his fingers up and down his slick. Too little friction, probably.

“There’s a few things we could do...” Junkrat mutters, not looking at him as he arches back up to shut off the valve. “If you’re so inclined, we could...” he says, leaning with his back against the wall, raising a hand in a V gesture and slipping a tongue between his fingers.

Mako raises his brows. “Yeah, I’m down. Didn’t... think you were into that.”

Junkrat remains there for a second, staring at him before retracting his tongue and extending a hand out to lay on his shoulder. He breathes in at a very, _very_ measured pace.

“...I trust you with this. ‘Kay?” He says carefully, focusing all of his haywire concentration into looking at Mako deep in the eyes.

 _Trust_.

Trust _._

Mako nods. Junkrat breathes out.

“Tell you what,” Mako says, in a tone so mundane compared to everything that just happened. “We can go inside. My bed. S’a little more conducive to this sort of thing than this…”

He motions around him.

“Cubicle,” Junkrat finishes, and Mako barks out a laugh.

“Yeah, cubicle.”

He takes a peek outside. Seeing that the coast is clear, he puts on his shorts, then grabs Junkrat’s discarded ones. When Junkrat gets his peg leg back on, not bothering with his arm, they make a break for it.

Their fingers loosely intertwine as they make it through the front door, crashing and tumbling into the creaking bed.

Their momentum comes to a rolling stop. Junkrat’s wandering hands stoke coals in him, and in the motionless room, the light touches throw sparks of hot ash everywhere.

In the dizzying motion and absence of sound, Mako can’t help but wonder… so many things, spiralling little thoughts, passerby moments he never takes firmly in his grasp. Ultimately, he settles on how there was a time before today where he couldn’t have this at all.

“I mean, at this rate,” Junkrat says, lying there with him and wiping a bead of sweat rolling off of his own nose, “We _are_ going to fall asleep.”

His eyes track loosely around the room, hearing the radio ramble at the kitchenette. “Gotta keep it interesting for you, or me. Y’can’t go soft on me,” Junkrat rambles aimlessly, propping himself up with pillows so Mako’s cheek brushes his abdomen and the corners of his pants.

Junkrat places a hand in his hair, but it’s too light, too ghostly, too absent, not congruent with anything he’s said at all, and Mako narrows his eyes. He props himself up to look at Junkrat at eye level, a healthy distance between them.

“You still want to go through with this?” He asks. Junkrat narrows his eyes back just a tad, not angry, more confused about the hold up.

“You know me,” Junkrat begins, the color and control filling back into his voice just a bit, catching up in the pause. “I keep my word. Mostly. Sort of. When it counts! I’m not going to just fall asleep on you, okay? It’s just a--”

“Rat.”

Maybe for a second, he gets Junkrat’s misleading, kaleidoscope train of thought to stop.

“Not that. This.”

Junkrat falters for a second, disembarking, figuring where to go from there.

The man reaches out tentatively, kneading Mako’s thigh. Mako’s not sure what he’s doing, but he lets him collect his thoughts.

“Yeah, big man. I’m sure.”

After a pause, seemingly redirecting himself, he speaks again. “Thank you.”

“No worries.” Mako huffs. Junkrat continues doing… whatever it is he does, but with more determination, brushing against his stomach with his knuckles and thumb.

“Just… need a little bit of...” He begins, sinking his clawed hand in slowly. It’s a heavy, good feeling, good even through the fabric of his pants and what little flesh invades.

“Just need a little something more?” Mako ad libs.

“Just need a little something to keep me going, something to… to keep me here, to...” Junkrat follows up, falling back into a good space.

He leans forward, moving his kneading, gripping hand to grasp the back of Mako’s head. He brushes his lips against Mako’s, the feather light touch overwhelmingly electric, routed away and sent to the earth by his firm grasp.

Mako reaches a hand up to press against his abdomen, digging in, the other hand rolling Junkrat’s pants off. The man parts his lips, tilting and humming and muttering, flush against him.

An afterthought hits Mako that, God, he probably has morning breath and Junkrat’s never any better, but through the blood in his ears and the static in his brain and everything going on all at the same time, he can’t distinguish anything but iron.

“Old habits die hard, mate,” Junkrat says, in a pointed tone, guiding him downwards with the hand in his hair. “Old memories, old people, you know the deal.”

“And I _really_ won’t mind if you tear them apart.”

Mako skirts by the insides of his thighs for just one second before sinking his teeth down. Junkrat turns electric around him, letting out a cackle and tightening his grip on Mako’s hair.

“That’s more like it!” The man yells out, unabashed, getting him into a gridlock. Mako digs down hard with his hand, a vice grip pressing through the empty space below his navel.

Mako brushes up against his untrimmed bush, a bit daunted but finding that, maybe, he could put his free hand to use. He presses against the softer flesh, warping and shearing his skin.

He looks up at Junkrat and, well, he does look a bit silly from his position-- but that’s neither here nor there. Getting back to business, Mako swirls his tongue around the man's cock, feeling his hand dance at the back of his head, dragging him deeper in.

He’s still hard from before, so Mako works at turning him to putty. He presses on the inside of Junkrat’s thigh with his thumb, easing forward. Junkrat titters, and Mako can’t help but chuckle back.

“That’s it, Hog, that’s it,” he encourages, with a crazed grin in his voice. Mako slips a finger in, then two, working through his tense, slick walls with a scissoring motion. Junkrat gasps, grinding against his face.

He works at him like this for a while, pumping his fingers in and out of him, drawing all manners of cusses and ridiculous strings of words out from him. He doesn’t seem anywhere near climaxing, though, and Mako’s hand is beginning to cramp.

He pulls out, and Junkrat whines at the sudden absence. Seeing him shake his hands out, though, gives him reason for pause. He gives Mako a few pats on the shoulder, letting him know they can talk.

“Tendonitis got ya?” He asks, with a little wink in his voice.

“No, smartass. This isn’t my dominant hand,” He sighs, flexing his fingers and wrist. “Give me a sec.”

“Sure thi-- Wait, really?” Junkrat takes Mako’s hand in his, studying it. “Oh, yeah, you’re a righty, ain’t ya?”

He rubs the weary joints and massages the sore flesh, all the while drawing them close to his face and studying them like a jeweller.

“Magic hands...” He says very seriously, staring in a strange kind of awe. Mako wants to snort and say _you flatter me,_ or something along his typical sarcastic lines. Chagrin washes over him, though, keeping him quiet.

“Well, you don’t have to worry,” Junkrat tells him, laying his hand down by his side. “I can take it from here… return the favor and a half, you know.”

“...Really?” Mako says, surprised.

“Really, really.”

Well, he won’t complain.

 


End file.
